


Green

by exfanficaddict



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Environmentalism, Feral Sakusa Kiyoomi, Gen, M/M, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24975124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exfanficaddict/pseuds/exfanficaddict
Summary: Following the trials of beleaguered environmental activist Sakusa Kiyoomi, as he tries to reason with the bros of ΜΣΒΥ fraternity. He fails and fails again — until one day he succeeds.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Green

Sakusa is a man on a very important mission.

It rains as he bikes up to the last house on University Avenue. It is a patchy and dilapidated affair that by all rights should have been condemned long ago, if only on account of its hideous yellow paint job. He skids to a stop just short of the rusted iron gate, where a small wooden sign hangs on a single white zip tie, reading:

**_ΜΣΒΥ_ **

He wrinkles his nose. He leaves his gloves on as he pushes through the gate and steps up to the front porch, which in places is stained a mysterious dark color and crunches under his Toms like broken glass. He goes to ring the doorbell when he notices some purple slime that clings to the button. Shuddering, he presses it with his elbow instead, and waits.

And waits.

Finally, the dented doorknob twists, and the door swings suddenly outwards, just barely missing Sakusa’s nose. He flinches backwards, unwilling to make any more contact with this house, its surfaces, or its inhabitants than necessary. A guy stands in the doorway, rubbing crust from his eyes and twisting a cap backwards onto his head. It says in gold stitching: _ΜΣΒΥ_. He is wearing a tattered pair of black cargo shorts and nothing else.

“Hey,” says the guy, looking him up and down with muddy brown eyes and scratching absently under the waistband of his shorts. “G’mornin’ to ya.”

“Good morning,” says Sakusa, resolutely keeping his eyes glued to the guy’s face. “My name is Sakusa Kiyoomi, and I represent the Students’ Coalition for a Green Future. We’d first like to thank ΜΣΒΥ for its continued cooperation with our on-campus recycling program, which has been named one of the nation’s top student-led environmental initiatives. As part of our annual report, we are looking—”

He is cut off by a huge yawn. "Ugh," says the guy, who hasn't even covered his mouth. "It's so early." He tugs off his cap and runs a hand through hair that has been bleached the color of straw, and clearly not washed for a few days.

His breath is absolutely foul. Sakusa clenches his jaw and takes an entire step back. He holds up his clipboard for good measure, and continues: "We are looking for constructive feedback on the effectiveness of our recycling program, as well as—"

"Look, bro," says the guy, leaning against the doorframe and squinting at Sakusa tiredly. "What do I hafta do to make ya stop?"

"Excuse me?" Sakusa snaps.

Another heavy sigh. "I'm hungover and we've got, uh—" and the guy hooks a thumb over his shoulder, "—something real important going on."

There is nothing important going on. Sakusa can hear quite clearly the unmistakable sounds of beer pong from inside the house. There is a yelp and a sudden crash like a bottle breaking and someone shouts, "Hey, hey, hey!" It is only 10:30 AM.

With the violence of someone drawing a knife, Sakusa pulls his ballpoint pen from his pocket and stabs it into the sheet on the top of his clipboard. "We want to know," he grits out, "What you think about our recycling program."

The guy looks confused. "Bro, we don't have a recycling program."

"You _literally_ have a recycling bin—" and Sakusa gestures to the blue plastic bin, with the Mobius Loop and _STUDENTS’ COALITION FOR A GREEN FUTURE_ engraved on every side, sitting right in front of the house — "right fucking there."

"Oh," the guy says mildly, turning to look at it. "Well, I've just been throwing everything in that. I mean, it all goes to the same place anyway, right?" He smirks.

Sakusa gapes at him wordlessly, before turning on his heel and stalking away.

* * *

The rain continues throughout the week. 

It pelts down on Sakusa’s head as he pedals frantically towards his class on _Rising Sea Levels and Frontline Coastal Communities_ , stuffing the used survey sheets back into his messenger bag with one hand and steering his bike with the other.

He is hurtling through the quad by the cafeteria when a small white _something_ in the middle of the walkway almost takes him out. Swerving wildly, he just barely misses a loud group of tourists on Segways. He steadies the bike and glances back over his shoulder, spotting a white plastic bottle lying in the middle of the path, not too far away from —

From —

Sakusa brakes so hard he almost launches himself over his handlebars.

“Hey, what’s your problem, bro—” roars a nearby tour guide on a scooter, but Sakusa is not listening. Clutching his bag to his chest, he is marching back to where a tall frat boy is standing right next to the overturned recycling can, its contents spewed all over the grass and walkway. He is, unmistakably, the same asshole who had answered the door at ΜΣΒΥ the other day, although he’d managed to make himself over in the interim, and now sported a head of slate gray hair.

“You absolute piece of nonrecyclable trash,” hisses Sakusa, his voice like steam escaping a kettle. “You pond scum—”

“Uhhh,” says that guy in that same lazy drawl. He looks around and seems to notice the mess he is standing next to. “I wasn’t actually the person who kicked over the—”

“Coral reefs around the world,” intones Sakusa, “are _dying_ every single day because of deoxygenation and rising water temperatures, and here _you_ are—”

“Hey,” says the guy loudly, “I think there’s been a misunder—”

“—and to think of the biodiversity we will _never_ recover, the loss of food security in vulnerable parts of the world, while people like _you_ just live your lives in some kind of semicatatonic state—”

“Sakusa?” A familiar voice cuts in.

Eyes narrowed in rage, Sakusa whirls around to see — oh. Komori. He is standing at a safe distance, looking a little spooked and holding out his wrist as if to check the time.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, eyes darting between Sakusa's pissed off face and the frowning frat boy standing off to the side, gripping the hem of his faded black _JACKASUKE_ pinnie. "But shouldn't you be in seminar right now?"

Sakusa pales. He dashes for his bike.

* * *

Some days Sakusa wonders if all this effort — the surveys, the reports, the meetings with faculty that only ever lead to hang wringing and no action — is worth it. Kita’s sleepless nights, Sugawara’s letters to lawmakers, Hitoka’s countless pamphlets. Perhaps humanity didn’t deserve to be saved from its own nearsightedness. 

Some of humanity, at least, did not, he thinks darkly, as he walks up to that decrepit fence, his Toms squelching on the concrete and clothing soaked with rain.

Kita had taken him to task quite thoroughly for his refusal to finish the surveys, in that transcendent, disapproving way of his. ΜΣΒΥ was first on his list of outstanding responses as some sort of punishment. 

Sakusa slinks to the door. After spraying it thoroughly with sanitizer, he presses the doorbell.

It opens swiftly this time, to a tall, muscled person with narrow eyes and thick, windswept hair. He slouches in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking at Sakusa with a bored expression.

"Good afternoon," says Sakusa coldly. "I'm here to ask about recycling. Again."

"Right," says the guy, raising an eyebrow at him.

Well. That was too easy. Sakusa glances down to the first question on his clipboard. "What's your name?" 

"Suna." 

"Suna what?"

"Rintarou."

Sakusa writes it down. "And what do you think of the recycling bins?"

Suna slowly scratches the back of his head, the expression on his face unchanging. "They're good, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah," replies Suna in a defensive tone.

"And what's good about them?"

"They're roomy. I think we were able to fit Atsumu’s fat ass in the blue bin once."

"You..." Sakusa inhales deeply. "The blue bins. They are meant for recycling. Of aluminum, plastic, glass. So they can be melted into new material. Does anyone at ΜΣΒΥ even know how this works? How it's _all_ supposed to work?" He is almost shouting by the time he finishes, clipboard and pen brandished in the air.

"Woah. Why are you so angry, man?"

"I'm angry because the world is on fire, and meanwhile I have to deal with little shits from ΜΣΒΥ who have bad hair and no consideration for other people—"

"Aha," says Suna knowingly. "Which one?"

"Which one?! Are all of you ΜΣΒΥ bros a bag of dicks?"

"Honestly, bro," says Suna, "I don't even live here."

Sakusa scrawls a giant _NONCOMPLIANT_ at the bottom of his clipboard, once the door to ΜΣΒΥ has been shut in his face. He thinks, vindictively, that no one could say he hadn’t tried his best. 

* * *

It is a bright and sunny day when Sakusa Kiyoomi gets to be the bearer of bad news. He pulls up on his bike to the now-familiar rusted gate, a bounce in his step as he pushes on through and steps up to the front door. He sprays down the doorbell and presses it for slightly longer than necessary.

There is a panicked patter of feet on the other side, and soon the door is creaking open to reveal — a kid?

No, not a kid, thinks Sakusa. A first-year ΜΣΒΥ pledge, if the lanyard and eager expression under a sunburst of orange hair were any clue. 

"Hey!" says the first-year with a blinding grin.

"Hello," says Sakusa, looking down his nose at that smiling face. "I'm here on behalf of the Students' Coalition for a Green Future, to deliver an official citation to ΜΣΒΥ for noncompliance with our mandatory recycling program."

"A WHAT?" exclaims the first-year, hands flying up to clutch at his hair. "We, uh — we've been complying, I'm sure!"

"Have you," says Sakusa flatly, pulling a folio from under his arm and holding it out for the kid to take. It reads _WARNING_ in big red letters on the cover. "That's strange. Maybe you should verify that with your brothers, who on multiple occasions have shown they are a menace not only to this campus but also to the future of humanity."

The first-year backs away from the folio as if it were a gun. "No, I mean, we recycle, I swear! Our new prez is very _gwah!_ about the trash, you have no idea. Ushijima-senpai gets all _mweh!_ when we put things in the wrong bin. He cares about the, uh, plants and stuff—" He cuts off with a screech as Sakusa suddenly steps forward, looming over him with eyes like flint.

"Tell me, kid—"

"Hinata Shouyou," he whispers.

"Tell me, Hinata," continues Sakusa in a soft voice. "What animals do you like? Sea turtles? Frogs? Polar bears?"

"Uh."

"What about bees? Do you like bees?"

"Do I — what?" Then Hinata snaps back to attention: "Uh, yes, sir! Everyone likes bees! They're cute and _bzzt!_ and make honey!"

"Good. And what if I told you they were all dying horribly?"

Hinata yelps. "What? Really? No!"

"Yes," says Sakusa grimly. "The honey bees are being picked off, one by one. Habitat destruction, irresponsible farming, and hot temperatures are decimating populations. It's all the bees can do to survive one more cold winter. Scientists say they could be gone within the century. Imagine that: no more honey bees. No more cute fuzzy bugs. Little flightless bodies all over the ground." He sweeps a hand downwards to demonstrate.

"That's terrible," cries Hinata, big brown eyes filling with tears. "What are we doing about it?"

"Not enough," says Sakusa, slapping the folio to Hinata's chest. "Think on that when you give this to your brothers."

Message delivered. He hums cheerfully as he bikes away.

* * *

Months later, things are looking up for the Students’ Coalition for a Green Future. Campus-wide recycling rates had improved, and they had negotiated a better bulk price with the local recycling center, which meant funding for their new project. Sakusa is stapling promo flyers to the student bulletin board when he gets a text from Kita:

_We need someone to make the frat rounds again._

Well. He knows who that means. Sakusa looks mournfully at the remaining flyers in his stack. He sighs and tucks them into his bag, and hops back onto his bike.

At 9 AM on a Saturday, most of the frat houses are quiet. His knocks going unanswered, he slips a flyer under each door. He rides up to the last house on the street and prays he will find it empty.

It looks different from the last time he visited. The horrid yellow color has been replaced with a fresh layer of white paint. The windows are polished, and the holes patched up with fresh plywood. He has to double check the new sign hanging at the gate by two thick pieces of hemp rope:

**_ΜΣΒΥ_ **

**_Welcomes You!_ **

Sakusa stares.

He kicks open the gate and steps up to the porch, which has been swept and scrubbed back to its original light brown. He points his spray sanitizer at the doorbell, but the door suddenly swings open. A new person is standing there, tall and broad with high cheekbones and eyes like an evergreen forest. Sakusa stops mid-motion, eyes wide and mouth suddenly dry.

The man gazes at him calmly, and says nothing.

"Excuse me," says Sakusa, lowering the spray. "I'm here with the Students' Coalition—"

"I know who you are," the man says in a voice that is rich and deep, as if coming from beneath the ground. "You came here last semester."

"Yes. I'm—"

"Sakusa Kiyoomi." His eyebrows slant dangerously together. "You told Hinata about the bees."

"I did," Sakusa says cautiously.

"Hinata cried for a week."

"That wasn’t my intention," Sakusa lies.

There is a pause. That gaze pierces right through him. "We received a warning for noncompliance."

"Yes. There were numerous issues I identified with the blue recycling bins—"

"There was no issue." And then the man falters, his stiff spine slumping almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his feet. "Not for the most part. Those who were using the bins for,” and he pauses, “other reasons have been strictly disciplined. I apologize for the trouble."

Sakusa raises his eyebrows. "You're the president here?"

"I am. I am Ushijima Wakatoshi."

"Ushijima-san," he says, noting the way the other man's khakis were crisp and clean, the way the fine fabric of his shirt bunched around his tanned forearms. "Hinata said you cared about the environment."

Ushijima nods. Sakusa observes, privately, the warm interest in his eyes. "Yes. I spend a lot of time researching modern agricultural techniques. Their impact on soil and water quality is distressing."

"Yes," Sakusa says, heart picking up speed in his chest. "We need to return nutrients to the earth. That's why the Coalition is starting a pilot program for campus-wide composting." He digs out a flyer from his bag. "Please read this."

Ushijima takes the flyer gently, his broad hands stopping just short of brushing Sakusa's. Sakusa feels the heat of them. 

"The waste will be collected in new purple bins. They'll be sent up to the Student Farming Co-op, which is a fully student-run—"

"I know," says Ushijima, small dimples forming at the edges of his mouth. Sakusa stares. "I volunteer to work in the garden there every day."

Sakusa's eyes flick downward to Ushijima's hands, as they fold the flyer neatly in quarters and tuck it in his shirt pocket. They are strong and calloused, with a light crusting of dirt around his nails. He feels his own heartbeat like a waterfall. 

"I think it is a great idea," says Ushijima bluntly. "The compost will encourage a circular economy."

"Yes," Sakusa breathes.

"The Co-op plans to be 100% sustainable by the end of the year. I think it is possible."

"Yes!" he repeats.

Ushijima squares his wide shoulders, muscles pulling taught the smooth fabric across his chest. "When that happens, you should come see it yourself." He looks at Sakusa under long eyelashes and adds quietly, "Or sooner. If you would like."

"I." Sakusa starts. "I don't like dirt, but I would like to see it."

Ushijima nods. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow at noon. I would like if you would join me on a personal tour of my garden. You will see I am — quite good at making things grow."

They look at each other for a moment. Sakusa feels a buzzing in his chest, like the vibration of a dozen cicadas in high summer. He reaches up with a gloved hand to tuck the flyer more firmly into Ushijima's front pocket.

"Tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll meet you there."

He leaves Ushijima standing there, sunlight casting a softness across his severe features as he waves Sakusa goodbye.

His chest is still buzzing as he walks back down through the rusted gate, and hops onto his bike to pedal away down the tree-lined street. He sighs as he breathes in the smell of leaves and wet earth — the smells of living, growing things. He smiles, just slightly.

Everything around him looks green.

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> 2am and i'm having feelings about ushiwaka and the planet
> 
> i'm not sorry


End file.
